


Street number, 4077

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Second Chances [30]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gossip, Slash, Walk Into A Bar, but also spies, in all senses of the phrase, it's complicated - Freeform, they're still doctors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: Nothing very special at the address. It's just a bar in Los Angeles, where a few odd doctors hang out.Maybe they talk about their work sometimes, when no one's looking. Patching up assassins, putting spies back together. The debris of the Great Game.(It's not technically a war; but then, neither was Korea.)





	Street number, 4077

**Author's Note:**

> ...so some people on Tumblr really wanted some M*A*S*H AUs. 
> 
> And I needed a good way to illustrate the differences between the various spy agencies in Second Chances, so this worked out rather well.
> 
> (Abandoned. Frankly, inventing dialogue for Hawkeye and BJ and the rest is too stressful for me to write; which is a shame, cos I do really love the fandom.)

Igor’s Place is, as bars go, a pathetic example of the breed. With its starkly harsh lighting and avocado green walls, it can’t even be called romantically decrepit. Blandly mediocre house wine. Musty bar snacks. And the bouncer always comes to work wearing a dress. He insists that it makes people less inclined to hit him; and strangely enough, he’s right.

But all the little discomforts and general mediocrity hold one great virtue for the regulars. Whenever outsiders do manage to find their way through the twisty alleyways to this rundown piece of Los Angeles real estate, they usually don’t stick around very long. Seclusion is an important consideration, when your day job involves working for top secret intelligence agencies. 

Not that any of the M*A*S*H crew go out on missions (their sobriquet applied by dear departed Henry Blake, for reasons he always promised to explain but never got round to). They’re the doctors who clean up afterwards; all the casualties who’ve fallen out of helicopters, or found as-yet-unknown weapons to be shot with. An endless stream of concussion cases. 

Funny thing, how unglamorous a tuxedo can look after it’s been torn off for some impromptu heart surgery. 

*************

“The new guy has to be better than Frank,” Hawkeye declares, as he starts in on his fourth martini of the night. “Then again, so would Klinger. Or a decently trained hat stand.”

Stirred, not shaken. God forbid he parrot other people’s catchphrases. (Except for Groucho Marx’s, anyway.)

“Unless,” BJ says, matching him sip for sip, “HIT thinks that they’d like to keep that reputation for being as lethal to their own guys as the targets. Any word when Radar’s bringing him down?”

“Seven o’clock’s the evil hour. Charles Emerson Winchester. I think I’ll start hating him now and beat the rush.“

“You never know. He might turn out to be one of the good guys.”

“Working for Homicide International? BJ, you and I might question some days what we’re doing at the Phoenix Foundation, but at least we don’t work at a place named in honour of a felony.”

“Don’t you start on that again, Pierce,” Houlihan says warningly. She works at the DXS (only place in the business that would take a female doctor, when she started her career), and agency names have always been a sore point with her. The Department of External Services isn’t the glitizest in the book. 

“Margaret, Margaret. Tell you what. You let me mock that double-barrelled surname, and in exchange I’ll keep quiet about your old nickname.”

“Oh, so now we’re talking blackmail, are we? You know, that was one good thing about Frank. He never stooped to the- the sheer pettiness of the rest of you, all that slang and casual deceptions that you’ve picked up from the agents. He held himself above the fray.”

“Except for taking the fray’s money,” BJ observes, and helps himself to another bag of pork scratchings. “Besides, Frank’s depth of character would have made a puddle look like the Marianas Trench. Cheer up. From the scuttlebutt I heard about Winchester, the lips that touch his lips are required to be of a masculine persuasion.”

“Well, good! We could use a gentleman around here, instead of another joker who insists on throwing pick-up lines at me all night.” (If she says it with a sigh, the others don’t remark it.)

“I pride myself on being an equal-opportunity offender,” Hawkeye says. “But BJ, who are you talking to that I’m not? Haven’t they heard about the inalienable Pierce right to any and all gossip within fifty miles of Los Angeles?”

“Try a refresher course in advanced eavesdropping, I heard Radar talking with Helen in the cafeteria this afternoon. You know, I think that boy is going places.”

“Our own mascot of a spy? I sure hope you’re kidding this time.”

“Hunnicutt’s right,” Margaret interjects. “I heard he’s going abroad, to-” she stops herself, abruptly. 

“Heard what? Suspense is strictly for people who like braces-”

This time Hawkeye’s interrupted, by the door opening. 

“And don’t forget the usual bouncer gratuity,” Klinger says hopefully. “All forms of cash accepted, and I can make change in a dozen different currencies.”

“Stop. Please. I had my doubts about this proposition from the start, and you are only making matters worse.”

“Winchester, I presume? Welcome to hell,” Hawkeye says, extending his hand.

“Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third,” the newcomer pronounces, every capital letter unnecessarily enunciated. Takes his hand for a moment and drops it like a wet rat. 

Hawkeye considers. Round, moon-like face, no hair, and a cut-glass Boston accent. This isn’t even close to his usual taste in tall willowy blondes (either gender, non-smoking).

But, well, if the guy’s going to make such a challenge of it...


End file.
